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An absurd thing to do. A perfectly mad
trick--for no conceivable object! I was reflecting on the foolhardiness
of the average girl and remembering some other instances of the kind,
when she came into view walking down the steep curve of the road. She
had Mrs. Fyne's walking-stick and was escorted by the Fyne dog. Her dead
white face struck me with astonishment, so that I forgot to raise my hat.
I just sat and stared. The dog, a vivacious and amiable animal which for
some inscrutable reason had bestowed his friendship on my unworthy self,
rushed up the bank demonstratively and insinuated himself under my arm.
The girl-friend (it was one of them) went past some way as though she had
not seen me, then stopped and called the dog to her several times; but he
only nestled closer to my side, and when I tried to push him away
developed that remarkable power of internal resistance by which a dog
makes himself practically immovable by anything short of a kick. She
looked over her shoulder and her arched eyebrows frowned above her
blanched face. It was almost a scowl.


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